


kit adamses (is trying their best)

by Horsantula



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: #justiceformina, Dallas Steaks (Blaseball Team), Hawaii Fridays (Blaseball Team), Incineration, Resurrection, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsantula/pseuds/Horsantula
Summary: As of the end of Season 11 of Internet League Blaseball, Kit Adamses of the Dallas Steaks is the only active half-star pitcher in the league.Who are they? And how did they get here?Sometimes, blaseball calls upon you, and you have no choice but to answer.
Relationships: Kit Adamses & August Mina
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	kit adamses (is trying their best)

There’s nothing Kit Adamses likes so much as a Sunday afternoon at the park. The central green is always bustling with friends and families, and Kit always enjoys peering through the window of their food truck and watching all of them having fun. On this particular weekend, however, they’re too busy to be idle, monitoring some char siu pork sizzling on the grill and passing out recipe pamphlets to customers. 

Kit’s been feeling great lately. Two years ago, they managed to save up enough money to finally achieve their dream of buying their own food truck. They still remember the rush they felt seeing “Adams’s” emblazoned on it in bright yellow letters for the first time. They’re now a regular at the park, renowned for their delicious grilled foods and their commitment to food and culture education. But other than the park, Kit is especially proud of securing a spot at the George Foreman Stadium on game days, where they sometimes get to see their good friend and former boss, August Mina, pitch for the Steaks. They’d met August as a line cook at her restaurant, Mina Cuisina, and had eventually moved up to sous chef before leaving to pursue their food truck dream. Though their paths had diverged, Kit was glad the two of them could still stay in touch. 

Fully immersed in the afternoon rush, Kit pivots from chopping up some cilantro when a customer appears at the window.

“Hey, welcome to Adams’s, what can I get for you?”

“Uh” - they glance over at the menu - “the pork special, please.”

“Yeah, of course.” Kit dishes it up and hands them a pamphlet to accompany their meal. “This week’s recipe is a vegetable and chicken stir fry - I’m doing a cooking demonstration at two if you want to stick around!”

Kit starts prepping the stir fry ingredients for the demonstration. Their truck has a retractable mirror over the window for customers to easily see what they’re doing, so they flip it downwards. As they gather all of the produce, protein, and condiments, people start to congregate outside of the truck in anticipation.

At two PM, Kit addresses the crowd. “Hey everyone, thanks for coming! Today I’m going to demonstrate a quick and easy stir fry. This is a versatile dish that can be made with nearly any vegetable or protein you have lying around. If you want the recipe for yourself, just come and pick up one of these pamphlets” - they pick up one and hold it up - “or you can find it on my website.” 

They’ve just put a few cloves of sliced garlic in sizzling oil to fry, when a sudden shock of heat rolls up their arm and through their body. For a second, they think some of the hot oil splashed their wrist, but the heat grows in intensity until their vision flickers in and out. Kit stumbles, grabbing the edge of the counter for balance, and when their vision returns they aren’t holding on to anything anymore. Instead, they’re sitting in the empty dugout of a blaseball stadium. 

The first thing Kit hears is screaming. It takes a moment for their head to stop spinning. The heat, which had been so intense a moment ago, is gone. When Kit can see clearly again, they observe a cluster of players crowded around a pile on the pitching mound of what they realize are ashes. From their marbled meat jerseys, Kit determines they are the Steaks. They look down and realize they’re wearing the same jersey. 

Over the din of shouting and sobbing, Kit notices a woman in a suit jog out of the building and over to the players. Out of the corner of their eye, they see a flicker of flames, and Kit looks up to see the Steaks’ Coach, towering over the stadium as usual, with a blaze crackling along his arms and the brim of his cap. Somehow this comforts them a little bit - every single game they’ve attended, Coach has been there, looming silently and aflame.

Kit doesn’t know what to do. They don’t dare to interrupt, so they sit frozen in the dugout, tracing circles in the dirt with the toe of their shoe, until one of the players on the mound looks over in their direction and points. The rest of their teammates follow, and Kit feels the full force of their staring. They take this as a cue, standing up and walking over. 

They’ve met nearly all of the Steaks - not enough times to remember exactly who’s who, but they can recognize almost everyone. So when August is the lone face missing among the team, Kit feels cold dread coalesce in the pit of their stomach. Their throat tightens, and they can’t say anything, even if they wanted to. 

The first person to speak is a man with a bushy brown beard, whom Kit vaguely remembers is the captain. His eyes are red, and he clears his throat before speaking. “You’re Kit, right?” 

Kit nods.

“Welcome to the team. I, uh, I’m sorry you had to come in like this. I’m Conner, by the way.”

Kit swallows hard. They try to tear their eyes away from the pile of ashes but they can’t. They dig their shoe into the grass. “What - what happened?”

Another player speaks up. At her side, she holds a glolf club instead of the expected bat. “Elections. Figures, we finally win a blessing and it’s _this_ one.”

“I just don’t get it,” Conner says, disconsolate. “If it had to be anyone, well, it should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one.”

“Don’t say that,” the glolf club-holding player snaps. “This is ridiculous. You go out for games expecting the worst, but you never expect it to happen during _practice._ ”

There’s a drawn-out silence during which Kit keeps their gaze up on Coach, hoping that the flames radiating off of him will burn the tears from their eyes. Finally, they say, “August was a good friend of mine. I’m really sorry.” 

“August mentioned you a lot,” another player with the skull of a cow says. When Kit looks closer, they can observe a small black shape wriggling on his forehead. “We had a team in-joke about playing more than one game per day so we could go back to your truck and get char siu as many times as possible. So, uh, welcome.”

“Welcome to the Steaks,” various players echo.

This makes Kit pause. “Wait, what do you mean by _welcome?_ ”

“You appeared in our dugout, and you’re wearing a Steaks jersey with your name on it. In blaseball, that’s a pretty sure sign that you’ve been chosen to be the next player on the team,” Conner explains.

“It might not be what you were expectin’,” says another player, who’s wearing a cowgirl hat instead of a blaseball cap. She fixes Kit with her brimstone-yellow eyes. “I didn’t choose to join the team either. But it’s not so bad. You can make it work.” 

Kit understands. They don’t have a choice. But they miss August more than ever, and at this moment, the best option they can think of is getting revenge on those responsible for her death.

“Well,” they say, “I’ve never played blaseball before. But I’ll do my best to help us avenge her.”

“That’s the spirit,” says another player. She sticks her blaseball bat, which is studded with sharp nails, into the center of the circle of players. The rest of Kit’s teammates follow suit, putting their hands in. “For August on three, everybody.”

Kit joins in, yelling as loud as they can. They’ve never been one for sports. Now they have to be.

* * *

Three months later and Kit’s gotten a little better at pitching. They’re fully a part of the Steaks now - they fit in perfectly with the team’s spirit of grilling, corny puns, and unconditional support. They still remember their first game pitching against the Garages - the team had lost the last two games against them, and Kit’s arm was so wobbly from the nerves, their pitches went every which way. The Steaks lost 3-9, but Kit’s teammates were so supportive, it was as if they’d pitched a shutout. Though when Kit checked the roster the next day, a half-star rating had been attached to their name. 

They know no one expects them to be actually good at blaseball. They didn’t have a choice whether to play or not. But Kit hates the guilt that burns in their gut when the other team scores on one of their pitches. They know the fans would rather see August in their place, who had an additional pitching half star. So they expend maximum effort at practice, even staying behind sometimes for an extra half hour in the bullpen. If they could just get a little better, they’d be a worthy replacement for her.

It’s day 33 of season 10. Kit’s watched from the dugout for the past two days as Leach Herman and Orville pitched, and they’re itching for their turn. All night they tossed and turned in their hotel room, the pitcher’s motion repeating again and again in their head. Finally, an hour before the game, they arrive in the Fridays’ guest locker room with the rest of the team, making a macchiato from the coffee machine and sitting down with their laptop to work on their latest visual novel. Somehow, focusing on the code for a little while before the game clears their head. 

A couple of the players have already begun their pregame rituals. Conner and Gallup are sitting opposite each other, engrossed in a podcast and a book respectively, while Kline’s stuff is in the locker room but they’ve gone, presumably near the opposite team’s locker room, where they fix any player who walks by with their intimidating stare. 

Conner takes out an earbud as more players file in. “Good mornin’, y’all. You eat breakfast? Are you hydrated? Make sure you drink water, not just coffee.”

Kit obliges, and goes to fill up their water bottle just to have something to do. As they’re standing in the hallway watching the level of water slowly rise in the bottle, Kline passes by, coming back from their stint at the opposing locker room. 

“Hey, Kit!” Kline says. “How’re you? You ready to pitch?”

“I hope so,” Kit replies. “How’d the staring go?”

“Pretty good. Gabe said hi and asked how the team was. I told him the Fridays get to face off against our super awesome new pitcher today.”

Kit chuckles. “Thanks, Kline.” They hold the locker room door open for Kline, and the rest of the team’s almost ready to go, lacing up their shoes and taking all the equipment they need. They file into the dugout and Kit takes in the atmosphere: the cheering fans in the stands, the blood-red clouds clustered over the top of the stadium, and the snack cart next to third base for some reason. Kit excuses themself to the bullpen to warm up their arm for a couple minutes before the game starts. Their arm’s a little stiff but they persevere, throwing pitch after pitch until it’s loose again. There’s a twinge in their shoulder that they ignore. 

Kit slides back into the dugout right as the first inning starts. It goes by pretty fast, with none of the Steaks scoring, and soon Kit finds themself atop the mound, staring down a Hawaiian honeycreeper: the Fridays’ captain Fletcher Yamamoto. They take a deep breath, wind up, and loose the ball. Twice more, and Fletcher strikes out. But Kit has no time to celebrate. Two more pitches, two ground outs, and the inning is over. 

Before they know it, Kit is back out on the mound. No one has scored yet, but that’s about to change. As Kit throws another pitch, they notice the pain in their shoulder is growing more intense. They grit their teeth and ignore it, but all of their practice pitches over the last few weeks, combined with their relative inexperience, have taken a toll. Two of the Fridays score in quick succession, prompting a wave of cheers from the stands. 

“Sorry,” Kit mutters to their teammates as they retreat to the dugout. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Dickerson replies as he brushes past on his way out to bat. 

“Yeah, you’re doing great,” Ronan says. 

The next few innings pass without incident. The Steaks score twice to tie the score. The clouds in the sky swell and burst, dousing the diamond in...well, blood. Amidst the chaos, Cory, who’s batting, gets siphoned for an extra strike. Kit winces as they see the grimace on his face. Though siphoning isn’t life-threatening by any means, it is certainly painful. 

Finally, the bottom of the ninth inning rolls around, and Kit’s shoulder hurts whenever they move it. Somehow, the score’s still tied at 2-2. They step up once again to the mound, the dirt sodden underneath their feet. The crowd’s cheers ringing throughout their ears, they throw a pitch that makes their arm throb with pain. A single. The next player steps up to bat, and when Kit throws the ball, they swing so hard their stale baguette bat makes contact with a resounding _crack._ The crowd’s cheers crescendo as the Fridays score twice and 2 on the scoreboard flickers to a 4. 

“SHAME!” the fans scream. “SHAME!!”

“NOT! LIKE! THIS!” the Steaks stands erupt. The team’s go-to cheer in times of misfortune. Kit’s whole face burns red, but they know they must finish out the inning. Their arm is shaking so bad at this point their next two pitches miss the strike zone terribly. But they manage to keep it together through two more outs, and then the game, mercifully, is over. 

Kit doesn’t want to look any of their teammates in the eye. So during the trudge back to the locker room they keep their eyes glued to the floor. They’re hoping they can sneak away to grab a shower without anyone saying anything, but Conner intercepts them and says, “Hey, Kit, can I steal ya for a minute?”

“Uh, sure,” Kit says. 

Conner pulls Kit into the hallway, where they can have some privacy. He exhales. “I saw you were hurtin’ during the game. Is it your arm?”

“Yeah.”

“This is partially my fault. I should’ve told you to take it easy. I’ve seen how hard you train, and that’s a good thing for sure, but sometimes it can be too much.”

“I’m sorry,” Kit says. “I just didn’t want to let the team down, but I guess it happened anyway.”

Conner shrugs. “Honestly, that’s just how blaseball works. For every win, there’s another team that has to lose. I appreciate your dedication and I’m proud of you, splort. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Kit nods. 

“Anyway. Since we’ve just played the last game before we go home, the Fridays invited us to a post-game cookout. It’s your first time and I don’t want you to miss it. So go get some ice on that arm and go enjoy yourself. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Kit says. “Um, thanks.” 

“No problem.” Conner’s about to turn around to go back to the locker room with Kit when his cell phone rings. He digs it out of his pocket and his eyes widen when he sees the caller ID. “Uh, I better take this. Tell the team I’ll catch up with them later, will you?”

“Sure thing, Conner.”

Kit feels massively better after they take a shower and change into a jersey that’s not spattered with blood. They go and see the trainer, who says they might have tendonitis and wraps their arm in a sleeve full of ice. When they exit the training room, Sam Scandal is there waiting in the hallway for them.

“Hey,” they say, grinning wide.

“Hey,” Kit replies. 

“So, the game might be over, but the fun’s just starting. Wanna help me out with some pranks?”

Despite themself, Kit has to smile. “Sure, Sam. Sounds great.”

The next hour, Kit eats so much good food they almost forget about the disastrous game and their injured arm, which has gone numb from the ice. They talk to a bunch of Fridays players, who are all super nice and promise to visit the Adams’s truck the next time they play in Dallas. They help Sam out by surreptitiously sticking pieces of food on Allison’s nailbat and seeing how long it takes her to notice. And Kline, whom Kit learns had an illustrious acting career before they joined the Steaks, regales everyone at the cookout by showing off all of their best impressions.

Kit’s on their third helping of food when Conner suddenly runs out from the stadium and whispers something to the closest Steaks player, which happens to be Gallup. They exchange a few words and then wave the rest of the players over. 

“Change of plans,” Conner says. “Phil just called. Somethin’ big just happened. She’s booked our flights back. We have an hour to get to the airport.”

“An hour?” Ronan says incredulously. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry. It’s really urgent. I’ll go say thank you to Fletcher. Meanwhile, y’all get in the bus, okay?”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Sam says, stuffing their pocket with one more slice of cake for the road. 

The flight home isn’t too eventful. When the team disembarks, Phil, the Steaks’ general manager, is waiting for them in the Dallas airport, standing coolly at the gate in her trademark crisp suit as they file in. She smiles when she sees them, raising a hand in greeting.

“It’s been a hectic few days,” she says.

“I bet,” Conner says. He turns to the rest of the team. “I know the rest of you must be confused. It, uh, has to do with a beloved player who was recently taken from us.”

Kit turns to the player closest to them, who turns out to be Cory. They mouth, _August?_ Cory shrugs. 

The whole ride back to the stadium Kit waits with bated breath. Eventually, the flaming figure of Coach comes into view, and the van rolls up to its designated parking spot. The team hops out, laden with suitcases and equipment bags. Kit is the last to get off, and thus the last one to lay eyes upon the newly resurrected face of August Mina, who is standing atop a nearby bench.

“August!” Ronan is the first to shriek. The team swarms her, which is a little harder than before, since she’s now just about a foot and a half tall. She’s also sporting a pair of iridescent green wings, but Kit, for one, doesn’t bother to wonder why. They run forwards, dropping their bags on the ground, and join the group hug. 

“Hey, y’all!” August says. “Gosh, it’s so good to see all of you again.” She turns to Kit, who is trying hard not to cry and doing an awful job of it. “Kit! Never expected to see ya here. They have ya join the league in my place?”

Kit nods, too choked up to say anything. 

“So, uh, if you don’t mind me asking, how exactly did this happen?” Sam says, wiping their eyes with the collar of their shirt.

August smiles. “The deal I made years ago with the Blobby Fey brought me back. I argued to the Forest Gods it was unfair to keep me as a one-star pitcher, and they agreed. So, I took the Blobby Fey’s place, and, well, here I am!”

“She’s not allowed to play blaseball, even recreationally,” Phil interjects, “but she is the assistant pitching coach from now on!”

“Welcome back, August,” Conner says. The rest of the team echoes him, including Kit. 

* * *

The team temporarily disperses to put their travel equipment back in the locker room. Kit stows their cleats under their cubby and hangs up their glove and jerseys. Then they go into the kitchen, where August is standing on the counter, trying to pour herself a glass of cold brew. She’s only a few inches taller than the pitcher. 

“Do you want some help with that?” Kit asks.

“Ya know, that’d be great,” August says, as Kit takes the pitcher from her. “Geez! I’ve only been in this form for two days, but I can tell it’ll take a while to get used to.”

“Well, if you need anything, just let me know,” Kit says. “Just like you said before every shift at Mina Cuisina. We gotta help each other out.”

“I did say that, didn’t I. Been so long, but I could never forget.” August takes a sip of cold brew, holding the glass with two hands. “Anyway, how ‘bout you? How’ve you been holdin’ up?”

Kit smiles. “Truthfully? I’m honored I got to take your place, August. But I’m glad you’re the assistant pitching coach now, ‘cause I’m gonna need all the help I can get.”

August chuckles. “Of course - that’s my job now! But hey, take care of yer arm first. No pitchin’ for a few days. That’s an order from yer coach.”

“Got it, Coach Mina,” Kit says. And there’s a comfortable silence in the kitchen as August drinks her coffee and Kit reflects on the events that brought them here and the uncertain future that lies ahead. But somehow, Kit doesn’t dread it as much anymore.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you to every single Dallas Steaks fan, for making such a wonderful team to write about.
> 
> Also: do you want to know more about how August Mina died and returned as a forest sprite? Follow her Twitter @august_mina! (I relied heavily on it for lore and characterization!) 
> 
> We Are All Love Blaseball.


End file.
